


We Alley Kids

by CaptainOzone



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Batfam Big Bang 2020, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Batman Annual 25, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Identity Reveal, POV Dick Grayson, POV Jim Gordon, POV Outsider, Protective Dick Grayson, Reconciliation, Reunions, descriptions of physical trauma/injuries, medical setting, rated for language, reference to homophobic treatment toward an OC, references to (previous) character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26689903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainOzone/pseuds/CaptainOzone
Summary: We all know Jason dug out of his grave. We all know he was found wandering the streets, looking as though he'd been blown halfway to hell. We know he was taken directly to a hospital, where we know he asked for "Bruce" before he was placed into a coma. We know the detectives called in to investigate don't make the connection to Bruce Wayne or to the son he lost. And we also know what happens next.But what if, by mere chance, someone did make the connection? What if someone did, in fact, recognize Jason Todd?A (mainly) Outsider POV story about one small act of kindness and the butterfly effect that follows. AU of Batman Annual #25.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & OC, Jim Gordon & Jason Todd, OC & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 128
Kudos: 727
Collections: Batfam Big Bang 2020





	1. Jess

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE thank you to my Big Bang team for all the work they put into this story! They were a blast to work with and their support and feedback made all the difference. All the love to:
> 
> These marvelous artists (whose art will be shared within the end notes of the appropriate/associated chapter!) - [reese-haleth](https://reese-haleth.tumblr.com), [noroomforcream](https://noroomforcream.tumblr.com), and [blueghostdraws](https://blueghostdraws.tumblr.com)
> 
> And my wonderful betas - [tintinnabulation-of-the-bells](https://tintinnabulation-of-the-bells.tumblr.com), [fandomanddenial](https://fandomanddenial.tumblr.com), and [just-a-little-in-over-my-head](https://just-a-little-in-over-my-head.tumblr.com)
> 
> Truly, all of you, thank you!

Jess knows something is wrong the moment she arrives for her night shift at Gotham East.

The ER is too quiet. Much, much too quiet. The teen in 4-B is doing well enough after her accidental OD, and since she refused further treatment, she’s likely going to be released within the hour. The middle-aged man who arrived at the beginning of her shift isn’t staying long: they’re rushing him off to surgery ASAP to remove his burst appendix. The newly diagnosed Type I diabetic from 3-C is stable and awaiting a hospital admission to the pedi unit. The MVA case in 1-D is waiting for collection by the police with nothing but a broken wrist, twisted fender, and pending DUI charge to show for the unfortunate choices he made. 

All in all, she walks into what, to most, looks like a standard night in a standard ER. 

Assuming Gotham East _had_ a standard ER. 

The other technicians laugh when Jess mutters sullenly about the slow night. Inactivity and boredom always ignites her temper in a way she can’t help but loathe, and the weird vibes she’s catching aren’t helping matters at all. 

(She’s very, very alone in that).

The nurses give her pitying looks. The MDs pay her no mind. They all brush her off when she snaps at them for their tasteless jokes and uncanny calm, and they ignore her twitchy paranoia with smug nonchalance as they balance their meager workload with phone games, salty snacks from the breakroom, and gossip about the cute, freshly-hired anesthesiologist in the OR. 

Jess is accustomed to the dismissive treatment, and she tries not to let it bother her. She’s one of the youngest emergency room technicians there, after all. Hell, she may even be one of the least experienced. She’s well aware she’ll need to claw her way up the rungs of this ladder, just as she had all the others, and she’ll do it in direct defiance of everyone who doubts her and everything that stands in her way. 

Let it be known the Narrows never raised a quitter. 

Inexperience and fresh-faced enthusiasm aside, she _knows_ Gotham. She grew up here, right in the heart of the Narrows. She knows how the city operates, how its people live, how every moment of calm only portends a new, unnatural, and potentially psychotic storm.

True Gothamites rarely have the luxury of sheltering from those storms, and only the strong or the lucky make it out of the flood alive.

The evening creeps steadily into the witching hours, and still, there are no signs of fear toxin, Joker venom, or raving lunatics high on Poison Ivy’s aphrodisiacs. No bloodied and beaten thugs lying across their front steps, left in an unceremonious pile by Gotham’s caped crusaders. No bombs wrapped in gaudy paper to disguise the threat within.

 _Nothing_.

The others think the downpour that started three hours into their shift is enough to keep the crazies at bay. Even Batman wouldn’t be caught dead out in this weather, Jonah argues.

(Jonah commutes from Bristol. Jonah doesn’t know _shit_ ) _._

Jess’ unease only mounts whenever she has a moment to pass by the near-vacant waiting room. She stares out into the wet night, skin crawling with anticipation. A few passing headlights illuminate the streaked glass of the ER doors, and the streetlamps are just bright enough to shed distorted, fractured light onto the ground, casting an all-too-eerie sheen across the parking lot. The shadows are too long out there, the sky murky like the water left in a painter’s overused rinse cup. Even the thunder and wind are... _off,_ sounding as though they’re emerging from deep within the recesses of the earth rather than whipping in from the sky above. 

A young man with several broken fingers and a mild concussion arrives at midnight. His sparring partner comes in mere minutes later with similar injuries and a bruised nose. Jonah needs to call security when the second man sees the first in the waiting room. Jess laughs for the first time that night when Dr. Hernandez hears the commotion, raises a perfectly plucked brow, and clucks, “Men don’t know how to throw a halfway decent punch these days, do they?” 

Their humor is short-lived. An elderly man arrives by ambulance at 0054 who, unfortunately, succumbs to an acute myocardial infarction and passes at 0301. His wife is with him at the bedside.

Needless to say, Jess doesn’t have time to think about the sky breaking open or the tense electricity in the air _._ She doesn’t have time to see the single flash of purple-tinged lightning arching and bending like skeletal fingers over Gotham City. She’s busy enough as it is: taking vitals, helping talk down the bar brawlers, assisting with wound care, and then responding to a code. She won’t say she falls prey to a false sense of security, but she does allow herself the dutiful distraction and sharp, singular focus that steady, intense work in the ER provides. 

It’s hard—God, is it hard—but she thrives here, in this place where compassion for her patients meets survival instinct, where stress and adrenaline become exhilarating weapons of competence and clarity. Old promises feel as fresh as the day she made them, back on that sagging, cracked stoop outside her parents’ apartment building, where her future lay in shambles at her feet. The memory of those promises fuels and supports her, bolsters her and reminds her why she’s doing what she’s doing. Why she’s _here_ , where Death tiptoes like a thief between breaths of life. 

The death they have that night is hard. They’re all hard, but it isn’t Jess’s first. She doesn’t have a direct hand in helping with the arrangements, so once the code is over, she takes a moment to breathe...and goes back to work. Two irate wives sit in the waiting room, ready to drag their husbands out by the ears once they’re discharged. She’ll settle her disappointed, guilty conscience and the crippling sadness in her chest later, when she’s alone. 

All things considered, it isn’t surprising Jess snaps like an overstretched rubber band when everything _really_ goes to hell.

It’s nearly 0500 when manic blue and red light spills into the ER from the ambulance bay. Gurney wheels squeak and screech through the door, accompanied by a crescendoing cacophony of thunder and rain, of voices and alarms. The tension in the air mounts, a disorienting energy absent from the AMI case not even two hours earlier amassing into an electrifying panic. 

_Cops_ race in, following directly on the EMTs' heels.

Their faces are pale, severe and emotionless, and time slows as Jess drops the paperwork in her hands and sprints to assist her team, her attention focused solely on their young patient so she can make her own snapshot assessment.

The first thing she notices is the suit. Odd to find a teenager in a suit, sure. Odder still that he was found wearing it out and about at this ungodly hour. 

But that isn’t even the oddest part.

It’s the state of the suit. The EMTs had shorn it down the center for access to his chest, which is only to be expected, but besides that, it’s _filthy_ , sodden with rainwater and caked with mud and what Jess can only assume is old blood. She can’t even discern the original color of the shirt beneath the suit jacket. Said jacket’s right sleeve is nearly torn off at the shoulder. The hems of his pants are ruined and tattered at the ankles, and at the wrists—

Oh. God. His _fingers_.

They’re torn to shreds.

Jess fights bile as she realizes what she should have noticed first and foremost: he’s injured. Badly. Angry burns and deep purple contusions mottle his exposed skin. Or, at least, what she can see of it. A morbid painting of blood and grime takes precedence, so it’s impossible to tell if they’re also dealing with lacerations, punctures, or God knows what else. His face is swollen and—

Jess freezes. Dr. Hernandez barks an order, but it flies over her head. She’s only half-aware of the fact Jonah’s dragging her dead weight out of the way. She’s not breathing, horror compounding into a mass that threatens to choke her from the inside out. 

There is a dead boy in her ER, and he’s staring right at her. 

He shifts underneath the wires and tape and straps holding him stable on the gurney. His chest rises and quakes with a rattling breath. He blinks. 

Jess stumbles away from Jonah, hands flying to cover the strangled gasp escaping her mouth. Her colleague curses under his breath and tries to call for help. The noise in the room crescendos, but none of it makes any sense. It's a disjointed circus tune of voices, their pitch and tempo overlapping in such a chaotic jumble they’re utterly indistinguishable from one another. 

Fingers suddenly snap in her vision, and there’s a hand on her arm. Honestly, she doesn’t notice Jonah is trying to lead her further away from the patient, not until she resists and feels the pressure of his hand around her arm tighten.

“Jess! _Jess!_ ” Jonah’s voice breaks through the din. He sounds angry, tone sharp and demanding, but his mask of calm defies logic. 

This whole _situation_ defies logic.

It takes all of her concentration to pull herself out of her inner spiral, instead latching onto the EMT who’s giving Dr. Hernandez his handoff report. His voice filters through her mind like noise coming at her from a distance, both sluggish and echoing, echoing, _echoing._

Her mind races as she breaks down the case, trying to find the _truth_ in this madhouse of impossibility. 

_“Male. Mid-to-late teens. ‘John Doe,’”_ the EMT calls him.

But that’s not right. Jess knows this boy. 

Once, this boy sat with her on that broken curb across from their shared apartment complex in the heart of Crime Alley. He saw her crying, saw her stuff scattered around her, torn scraps of paper from treasured journals and ruined clothes all bunched up and laying like discarded trash in the gutter. 

This boy was the one who asked what happened. And why. 

_“...found wandering the streets, visibly injured and in a state of disarray...”_

When she curled her legs to her chest on that cracked stoop and told him a gay girl wasn’t worth shit to anyone, not even those who were supposed to love her and support her, he stared at her with fire in his eyes and said, on no uncertain terms, “That’s stupid.”

_His eyes are glazed and vacant now._

This was the boy who sat with her as she wiped her tears, incredulous and unable to formulate a response. Because, really, what _does_ one say to the weird Alley kid who just called her out so spectacularly? 

“I hope you’re not thinking about _doing_ anything stupid,” he said to her in that arrogant, matter-of-fact _you’re-a-dummy-but-I-will-overlook-it-this-once_ tone all kids seem to have mastered by the time they’re toddlers.

She remembers how she almost laughed. Because she had been thinking about doing a number of stupid things. Because what else could she do? What other options did she have? She’d been kicked out, cut off, totally abandoned. No food, no money, no prospects. Nothing. No one to call. Nothing to call _with._

She was fifteen. She was an Alley kid. And she’d already been out on that stoop for hours, suffering catcallers and jeering disdain from men and women alike. 

The sun was sinking below the horizon, and she’d been no closer to deciding what to do.

Or how to do it.

But then her punk ass neighbor from across the hall with the sticky fingers and the drug addict mom sat with her. And because he sat with her, he also bore witness to her crumbling at the reminder of her hopeless situation, and he _scowled_ at her. This weirdo eight-year-old child’s scowl carried as much heat as his eyes did, and instead of making her retreat further; instead of making her fall even further into the pit of desolation she was drowning in; instead of lashing out and cussing him out, she...caught some of its spark. 

It didn’t make sense then, but it ignited something deep within her chest.

(Later, she would credit that scowl for being the life-raft she needed to keep her head above water).

_He’s not scowling now. His lips twist into a grimace of pain._

“Hey,” he had said, poking her like the annoying brat he was. His expression was too old for his face. “ _Promise me_.” 

“Only if you promise _me,”_ she shot right back at him without thinking. It was child’s logic, utterly nonsensical and spontaneous, but they _were_ children then, weren’t they? She had no idea what she was promising, no idea as to the layers upon layers she was building into the promise she was about to make. She didn’t even know what she was asking him to promise in return.

But it didn’t matter. At that moment, it was enough. 

The boy considered her proposal, nodded, and set his jaw. “Fair deal.”

He spit into his hand and offered it to Jess, who, in a fit of delirious amusement and renewed hope, laughed. 

“We Alley kids are better than they think we are,” he said with a confident grin.

“You better believe we are,” Jess agreed, spitting into her hand and sealing the oath with a handshake.

_“...blunt force trauma to the chest, the extremities, the face and head...”_

After their handshake, the boy had offered her the name of someone he heard could help her get back on her feet. All above the board. Legal. And, most of all, _trustworthy_.

She believed him, and once he was called in by his mom, she watched him go, took a deep breath, and stood up from that broken curb. 

She didn’t turn back, and she didn’t see him again. 

(Not until a half-decade later, during a Wayne Foundation event at which she was receiving a scholarship that would put her through her emergency response certification courses and exams. He didn’t recognize her. But she recognized _him_.

She learned his name that day, and she watched him and Bruce Wayne from a distance, overcome with emotion and unable to act on it, not even when the man himself stood before her with Jason at his side, commending her for her dreams and the service she would provide the community with the help of his generosity. 

It seemed to her as though Jason Todd was as good as his word, and she left the event knowing, in her heart of hearts, everything was as it should be. That very night, she prayed for the first time since she was fifteen, thanking God for allowing the intersection of Jason’s life with her own). 

_“...numerous broken bones and suspected fractures. Flash burns covering up to sixty-percent of his body...”_

Jess doesn’t comprehend the rest of the report. The boy’s vital signs shouldn’t be what they are. He shouldn’t be “awake but not oriented.” He shouldn’t have a GCS of 9. He shouldn’t be able to respond physically _or_ verbally. He shouldn’t be at risk of coding right in front of her.

Jason Todd died in an explosion six months ago. 

The last time she saw him, his face was plastered all over the news. They showed a candid of him standing with none other than—

Jason’s mouth suddenly moves, lips forming a single name. 

_Bruce._

Reality crashes with deafening finalty.

There’s no denying it now.

Jonah _and_ Nicole are still trying to pull Jess away from the scene. One of the cops hovers nearby, keeping a watchful, distrustful eye on her. 

“That’s Jason Todd,” she gasps, the words tripping over themselves as she watches the rest of the team drive Jason’s gurney away. The cop’s head whips to her, and he follows at a brisk pace as Jonah and Nicole yank her into an empty patient room. After she’s forcibly sat down on the examination bench, she rambles, “I don’t know how, I don’t know _why,_ but that is Jason Todd.” 

Nicole has a glass of water in her hand, and at the name of the famous dead boy, she spills some of it onto Jess’s lap. Jess stares at the wet spot on her scrubs, temper frothing to the surface when she realizes the cop is murmuring something in undertone to the nurse about security. 

“I’m not crazy,” she hisses. To the cop, she says, “And _you_ shouldn’t be in here.”

The detective’s expression is blank. She doesn’t want to know what he’s thinking about her reaction to the undead child in their ER. 

“Am I a suspect here?” Jess asks anyway. When he doesn’t buckle under her glare, she crosses her arms and mutters, “Un-fucking-believable.”

“Jess, no one is accusing you of anything, but you need to get checked out,” Jonah says very, very calmly from her side, and he looks at Nicole, who brandishes a blood pressure cuff. “We believe you had a panic attack. Let us help you.”

“You’re not listening to me!” Jess protests. 

“Please cooperate here, Jess,” Nicole murmurs, attempting to put the cuff around her arm. 

Jess pushes the nurse away. “You’re not _listening_ to me,” she repeats. “That’s no John Doe. That is _Jason Todd.”_

“Bruce Wayne’s boy?” the detective asks abruptly from where he’s stood, his tone funny and pinched. When Jess gives him an aggressive nod, the detective’s frown deepens, disconcerted lines marring his forehead and the edges of his mouth.

“Jess...” Jonah says. He gives Nicole a significant look over Jess’s shoulder. “That’s not possible, you know that, right?”

“Don’t you dare call for a psych consult,” Jess spits at Nicole, who is making the motions of doing just that. “Or draw up the Ativan. I’m not losing it. I know what happened to him. Everyone in Gotham knows. But I know _him_. He was a neighbor, a long time ago, before Wayne took him in. He...”

_Saved my life._

Her right thumb finds the semicolon tattooed on her left wrist. 

“He was calling for Bruce,” Jess says, pinning the detective with what she knows are desperate, waterlogged eyes. “You heard it, didn’t you?” 

The man looks like he’s about to be sick, his pallid skin glistening with a sudden, chilled sweat. His mouth pops open, then closes. The revelation on his face is enough of an answer. 

“We had no idea,” he whispers. “We thought...”

“What other Bruce would he be calling for?!” Jess demands, rising to her feet despite Nicole’s protests. “It’s him, I swear to you! Call it in!” 

“Holy shit,” the cop says, taking a few unsteady steps backward. “He said...It was the one question he could answer before—” His fingers scramble for the phone at his waist. “Excuse me.”

He darts out from behind the curtain, pressing his phone to his ear and racing toward his partner. He turns around just once to order all three of them to _stay there_ and _don’t move._

The moment he’s gone, Jess slumps back on the examination bed, the frantic energy leaving her body like the air from an abruptly popped balloon. After running a hand down her tear-streaked face, she huffs a humorless, incredulous laugh. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Jonah echoes, his tone numb. “What the hell just happened?”

What happened? Good question. But she hopes—prays—that maybe, just maybe, she was able to pay back that scowling wise-ass kid, who, to this day, had no idea just how much he altered the course of her life by simply sitting on the curb with her.

Maybe, just maybe, she was able to alter his, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the [first piece of art](https://reese-haleth.tumblr.com/post/630733422088863744/i-had-so-much-fun-drawing-this-piece-for) for this fic by the lovely [reese-haleth](https://reese-haleth.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> See you next week for chapter 2!


	2. Jim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, surprise, I have zero chill and could not wait until tomorrow to post. Having a posting schedule is _hard_ , especially when all the chapters are more or less ready to go. Kudos to all of you guys out there who do this on the regular. I don't know how you do it.
> 
> Also, please excuse any odd spacing issues around my italics. I tried to catch them all when copy/pasting from GoogleDocs, but I could very well have missed some.

“We’ve got a...really weird one here, Commish.”

Jim’s first reaction is to sigh. Maybe rub his eyes and ask Bullock if he’s doing this as a joke. Maybe make a show of popping another Imitrex. 

It’s only been thirty minutes since his first dose, so he can’t. It’s a damn shame. His head still throbs, and even though he caught the attack before any aura manifested, he still feels nauseous enough when he looks at his computer screen that he’s regretting everything about waking up this morning. 

Barbara would insist he’s being dramatic. He probably is.

He does sigh then, and it requires all of his energy to raise his gaze from his mind-numbing reports, level Bullock with a flat expression, and snark, “They’re all weird ones these days, Harvey.”

He doesn’t get that far. The moment he looks up, he realizes Harvey is not alone. Standing in the door frame with him are Sandra Wilkinson and Greg Nowak from Homicide and Missing Persons respectively. 

It’s never a good sign when the heads of the Homicide _and_ Missing Persons Units are called in to report to him directly. And this early in the morning?

Jim’s exhaustion compounds, weighing upon him like debris from an avalanche, before adrenaline snaps him out of it. He pushes himself away from the desk and stands. “What do we have?”

Sensing the unspoken invitation, they file into his office. Harvey’s expression twists into something indefinable and unsettling as he shuts the door behind them. “How likely is it,” Bullock asks once they are alone, “that Bats was playing around with his Justice Team recently?” 

The non-sequitur startles Jim nearly as much as Bullock’s bitter tone. “I wouldn’t know,” Jim says honestly. It’s not as though Batman tells him what happens during his missions outside of Gotham, though most of the time he does have the courtesy to warn Jim when he’ll be unavailable.

Key phrase here being “ _most_ of the time.”

Jim tries not to allow frustration to get the better of him. His tone is still a little too curt when he asks, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because this is some weird shit, Jim!” Harvey reiterates. “The kind of dark magic, voodoo, and big, bad death gods type of shit his superpowered pals tend to mess around with.”

Jim’s moustache twitches as he frowns, but his irritation doesn’t prevent him from noticing the twitchiness in Bullock’s fingers when he crosses his arms. Jim watches closely, and it occurs to him that Harvey is spooked.

Harvey doesn’t get spooked easily. 

Greg shrugs when Jim turns to him for clarification. “Bias aside, Bullock may not be _completely_ wrong this time, Jim.” 

“Thanks for the ringing endorsement, Nowak.”

“Piss off, Bullock. You could still be wrong.”

“Sandra,” Jim says, writing the other two off as hopeless. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“We just got a call from John Mays,” she says. She’s beautifully professional and succinct when she speaks. Jim appreciates her. “He was out on the beat with his partner when he was rerouted to an odd 911 call in the East End at about four-thirty this morning. Couple of folks there were in hysterics, saying they’d nearly run down what looked like a _zombie.”_

“Great,” Jim deadpans. He doesn’t know what it says about him that he’s not immediately categorizing their callers as drug-addled or in need of serious psychiatric help. “And was it?”

Sandra hesitates now, her sharp brown eyes skimming between the colleagues at his side. “Well, that’s where it gets a little weird. We’re not entirely sure.”

“Is it contained?” Jim asks immediately. _And are there more?_ He tries to suppress the slick, icy shiver of dread sliding down his spine, and his tongue stalls on the follow up question, unsure if he’s ready to hear the answer. The muscles in his legs are locked, primed to explode into motion if the need calls for it.

“ _He,”_ Sandra corrects, and the tension ebbs. If the zombie’s proper pronoun is what she’s choosing to focus on, then maybe the situation isn’t nearly as dire as he fears. Jim almost feels relieved. 

“And he’s...actually not dead. Or undead, as it were.” 

_I spoke too soon_ , Jim thinks, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. _You’re killing me here, Sandra._ He struggles not to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose. He fails. “Then why aren’t we sure what exactly we’re dealing with here?”

“Because he—well, he _was_ dead,” Sandra tries to explain. “The victim, that is.”

Jim drops his hand and stares. “What,” he says.

“We don’t know that, actually,” Nowak reminds in an uneasy tone, ignoring his superior entirely. “It’s a possibility, sure, but there really can be any number of explanations for what’s going on right now.”

“There’s _no_ other explanation for it!” Bullock argues. “I mean, I’m hardly the first guy to stand up for someone like Wayne, but—”

Jim goes still. Something sinks in his chest, lodging deep in his heart tissue. “ _Wayne_?” he repeats. “As in _Bruce_ Wayne?”

His demand for more information goes unheard by his bickering colleagues. Again. Their voices rise.

“We have to remember who he is. And what kinds of resources he has. It could have been a cover up,” Greg says, though even to Jim’s bemused ears, he doesn’t sound convinced. “It could be some elaborate PR stunt. It could be some really, _really_ messed up plot to—”

“ _Jesus,_ Nowak, you can’t honestly believe that!” Sandra exclaims, her pitch and volume easily overtaking that of the men’s voices. “We saw Wayne after it happened. Hell, the entire family dealt with a gross amount of public scrutiny. Everyone both inside and outside of this precinct had front row seats to their mourning!”

“Sure, and it was tragic to watch, but—”

Sandra’s eyes roll up to the ceiling, and she hisses a brief prayer for patience under her breath. “But nothing. You and I _both_ looked over that case, Greg. We had the body here in our facilities! Our people did the autopsy. We were the first ones to read that autopsy report. You can’t—”

“We have to explore every possibility here!” Greg says with a wild flail of his arms. “It may not even be an accurate ID, for God’s sake!”

“ _Enough_!” Jim barks. “You two—” He gestures between Greg and Sandra. “—quiet. Bullock, _report_. What in the seven hells is going on?” 

Harvey swallows roughly before explaining, “Mays and Gilligan were on scene to take the statements of the couple who called 911. The witnesses described their zombie, but it was a bit redundant. John was able to see the victim for himself before the EMTs arrived, two minutes later. John admitted...it was not good, Jim. Not good at all. It looked as though the kid had been through hell and back again.”

 _Kid._ Their zombie’s just a kid. Jim’s mouth goes dry, an ugly and unnamed suspicion seething below the threads of chaos sewn through his racing thoughts. 

“He and Rory followed the ambulance to Gotham East,” Harvey continues. “They had every intention to monitor the situation because clearly the kid was in a bad way, and if he was beaten, blown up, and buried alive for _whatever_ reason, they needed to know who did it, how it happened, and why the kid was targeted at all.”

“But then someone working in the ER ID’d the kid,” Sandra finishes. 

_Beaten, blown up, buried...._

Jim’s ears begin roaring, the ghost of a joyous laugh echoing in the static of white noise surrounding him. Dread transforms into full-fledged disbelief as he picks at the threads, as he fits bits and pieces of the previous argument to Bullock’s story, the name _Wayne_ tying everything together in a messy bow.

Dark curls. Bruises so deep they looked black. A cape of yellow. Blistering and oozing burns. Skinned knees and Wonder Woman Band-Aids. A lopsided smirk. Bummed cigarettes and a stubborn chin. 

A dead boy. 

A missing bird.

_It can’t be._

He’s no closer to believing it—he doesn’t _want_ to believe it—but he already has a sense of what Sandra’s going to say well before the words are out of her mouth.

“She...she identified him as Jason Todd.” 

With that very statement, the last brick is laid upon a hidden foundation Jim’s mind has been building for well over a decade. It clicks into place so firmly, so snugly, there is no denying it now. Hell, there’s not even a _semblance_ of plausible deniability left for him to claim. There’s no painstakingly cultivated ignorance left for him to slip back into.

Rage swells over him in a violent rush. _Babs._ What happened to her was _his_ fault. All of it. 

And then, nearly as soon as it appeared...it’s gone.

Bruce Wayne’s son was a casualty in this war, too.

“Commish?” Bullock asks, uncertain. 

“I was at the funeral,” Jim realizes aloud, numb and cold. _I saw the family crumble_ , he doesn’t say. _I saw the scars Jason’s death left behind._

_I see what it does to them, even now._

Jim’s eyes shutter closed, an old empathetic ache pinging in his chest. He can see in his mind’s eye the closed casket—far, far too small and bearing one far too young. He can still see the small procession, Bruce’s head bowed, Alfred’s crumpled handkerchief, Barbara’s eyes filled with tears. Even months later, he can still feel Dick’s absence like a knife wound, much in the same way he can still sense the heavy guilt, writhing anger, and deep sorrow hanging like a shroud over everyone in attendance. 

Nestled amongst the woven array of roses, carnations, and lilies, there was a single sunflower resting atop that horrible casket. Jim remembers staring at it throughout the service and hating that he couldn’t decide what Jason would think of it. 

At the time, Jim figured any one of his possible imaginings would fall short. Because if there’s one thing he did know about Jason Todd, it was that the kid would never fail to surprise him.

Not even after death, it would seem. 

_But that_ , Jim has to concur, _is utterly impossible._

His colleagues fall silent, and after a moment, Jim clears the lump from his throat and grounds himself into reality. His cop brain takes over. They have a case, and it’s time to work it. 

What do they know? What can they confirm? What do they still need? And, most importantly, what is next? These are the questions that need answering now. These are the answers that will dictate which steps to take.

Everything else...everything else can wait. One step after another. That much _is_ possible.

“Do we have a positive ID?” he asks. 

Sandra and Greg exchange a look. “Clayface and Jane Doe are accounted for,” Sandra says. “We are planning to go through the list of known shapeshifters and illusionists powerful enough to pull this off. Cross-referencing them for connections to Wayne will take time. We’re pulling all incident reports related to Todd’s death, too, so we can compare the wounds documented by our medical examiner with those reported by the hospital, assuming we get approval to view those records at all. As far as our ‘zombie’ goes: no fingerprints pinged, dental is pending. So...to answer your question: not yet, but...” Sandra looks as though she’s trying to find a delicate way to put it. “I'm not surprised. Wayne has always been particular about his privacy, hasn’t he?”

A dark, inappropriate humor bubbles within Jim, and he has to bite back the sarcastic comment threatening to burst through. 

_It’s alright, Sandra,_ Jim wants to say, _you can call it what it is._

How ironic it is that Bruce Wayne’s paranoia is what ultimately proves to Jim that this is no sick joke, no trick of light or manifestation of the arcane.

The law will need more. Bruce may need more, too. 

But Jim won’t. He knows.

Jason Todd is alive. _Robin_ is alive.

God, some small part of Jim urges him to stalk up to the rooftop right now so he can light the Bat Signal and sucker-punch that asshole in the jaw for everything he’s done. 

Another small part stands in opposition to the first, reminding him of...everything else. Of all the good they’ve done and the trials they faced together. It wants nothing more than for him to tell that very same asshole to take off the damn cowl so they can stand eye to eye, as equals, when he shakes his hand.

Jim’s going to have to wait for the satisfaction of either. The enormity of his partnership with Batman eludes definition, and that includes his relationship with both Robins. Considering the unlikely connection he has with civilian Bruce Wayne or the deep friendship Babs has with Bruce’s eldest ward, the convoluted knot that exists between the Wayne family and his own may be too large to address in any capacity. Ever.

But he _does_ need to own up to his mistakes. No amount of blame, deserved or otherwise, can change the fact _Jim_ made the decision to let Batman look after his underaged protégés. Jim was the one who tricked himself into believing Dark Knight was infallible. Who allowed himself to play the fool time and time again. Who convinced himself that, should Batman fail to protect the others, he’d be able to pick up the slack.

Jim failed the second Robin once. He refuses to do so again. 

He needs to get to Gotham East.

“Do we have teams at the gravesite?” It’s a rhetorical question. Jim doesn’t wait for their response. “I want at least two K9 units and another team of investigators out there ASAP. We need to secure the scene. Every inch of it. Trace our victim’s steps and interview as many witnesses as you can get your hands on: employees of St. Peter’s Cathedral, twenty-four-hour diner owners, gas station workers, _anyone_ that might have seen him walking the streets. If we can get CCTV footage, I want it.”

“Do we need to recall John and Rory?” Bullock asks. “Send in one of Sandra’s or Greg’s? Those two are probably in over their heads.”

A painful zing of anxiety rips through Jim’s chest, and he balks momentarily. Whatever dichotomy of emotion he feels about Batman right now, he still needs to protect them. All of them.

“No,” Jim says. It looks as though his colleagues are about to argue, but he stops them with a chilling glare. He paces back to the desk, flinging his jacket off the back of his chair and donning it. “They’re already involved, so keep them there. Have them contain the scene, prevent word from getting out. We cannot have the press or any additional onlookers getting ahold of any of this, do you understand me? Your teams are not to speak to _anyone_ , and if they do...”

He lets the threat linger. It’s...it’s the most he can do. There’s only so much interference he can run before this becomes much too big for him to handle.

No. He _will_ handle it. He has to.

For the kid.

"Until we verify our victim’s identity and get in touch with Bruce Wayne, everything about this case is need-to-know. _I_ am going to Gotham East to talk to John and Rory in person,” Jim says, “and I will interview our lead myself. Forward everything you discover to me directly. Bullock, you’re with me.”

The office door flies open, and if Jim’s personal involvement bothers or confuses them, they don’t show it. Sandra and Greg scatter, intent on following their orders.

“The Bat?” Bullock dares to ask as they hightail it out of the GCPD and slip through the lot to Jim’s sedan. 

Jim’s gaze skates up the skyscrapers surrounding them. He doesn’t expect to see anything—he never does—but he can’t break the habit. He expects he never will. 

“Not relevant right now,” he says, dragging his gaze away and unlocking his car. 

It’s not a lie, necessarily. Batman has no place in this. 

Bruce Wayne, however, does.

(It’s Bruce that Jim needs to help today. From one father to another). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next week for chapter 3, in addition to two new pieces of art I've yet to see myself! :D :D


	3. Dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would be remiss not to complain about canon timelines in this chapter. I was doing research to see what Dick and Bruce were up to during Batman Annual #25, right? Wrong. Do not do this. It makes no sense. Because according to Batman Annual #25, Jason was resurrected 6 months after his death. This is due to the events in _Infinite Crisis_ , when Superboy Prime breaks out of his dimensional prison. Now, during _Infinite Crisis_ Tim is already Robin (which, again, makes NO SENSE because Tim canonically wasn't allowed out into the field as Robin for a year or more because of Bruce's hesitations), AND Chemo was dropped on Bludhaven (an event that also takes place in _Under the Red Hood_ , in which, as the title suggests, Jason is already Red Hood).
> 
> SO. All that being said. Canon is obsolete, and it is even more evident in this chapter that I threw it all out the window and said "good riddance."

Aerosmith plays on the radio.

Dick has no strong opinion about the song itself, but it’s _Aerosmith._ Everyone knows Aerosmith. He can’t help that classic rock begs to be sung along to, especially on a day like this, when the cloudless blue expanse of sky before him looks so perfect it’s unreal.

So he sings along to Steven Tyler like he was born to do so.

No one’s there to tell him otherwise, after all.

“ _There’s somethin’ wrong with the world today. I don’t know what it is. Something’s wrong with our ey~es.”_

It’s truly a beautiful day. There’s no sign of the storm that split open the sky last night, and he has the bad weather (and the mother-hen who goes by the name of Alfred) to thank for the full eight hours of sleep he’d gotten. He hasn’t felt this good—this _light_ —in...

Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. 

_“Livin’ on the edge. Livin’ on the edge.”_

Someone honks behind him, and he hums distractedly, closing the minor gap that opened up while he wasn’t paying attention. Once he’s painstakingly moved up, he looks up in his rearview mirror and meets the mad-dogging gaze of the impatient asshole riding his tail. He offers an insincere, wide smile, and his petty amusement grows into immature delight when the guy behind him notices and begins spitting curses at him.

Mischief managed.

 _“There’s somethin’ wrong with the world today.”_ Dick’s fingers drum along to the beat against the steering wheel. “ _T_ _he light bulb’s gettin’ dim. There’s meltdown in the sky.”_

Huh. Traffic really is a bitch today. Bitchier than usual. The pattern of Dick’s amateur drumming changes, and he leans his head to the side and tries to get a better look ahead. There must be debris from the storm blocking the way. Or maybe some minor flooding’s causing a bit of a backup. Which is super. Hardly a problem at all. It’s not as though he’s late or anything. 

He checks the time and winces. He’s very late. Amy’s going to have his hide.

When his phone rings not even seconds later, his first thought is, _Ah, speak of the devil_. 

After turning down his stereo’s volume, he picks up without looking at the caller ID. “Hey, Amy, I’m sorry, I know I’m late. I’m stuck on—”

“Dick.”

The voice on the other end of the line is distinctly not feminine. The tone is far from Irate-Boss.

The world shatters around him. 

“Commissioner,” Dick returns. There’s an awkward silence, and Dick’s tongue stutters over his next question. There are only so many reasons why Jim Gordon would decide to call him out of the blue _._ None of them are very good. “Is...everything okay?”

When Jim doesn’t immediately answer, Dick stares out through the windshield and, thanking all known higher powers for the opportunity, makes a hard left. There’s a chorus of honks and screeching brakes as he pulls as fast of a U-turn as his old beater will allow. If he were a less skilled driver, he would have fish-tailed into traffic, but Batman taught Robin to drive two years before Bruce Wayne could legally teach Dick Grayson. He straightens out masterfully and speeds toward the interstate before the puff of exhaust he leaves behind can dissipate into the air.

“Is it Babs?” he rambles, a desperate lump growing in his throat. “Is she okay? What happened?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Gordon curses. “Yes, I’m sorry, son. Barbara is just fine, last I heard.” 

Dick exhales a shaky sigh that catches halfway in his throat. “Bruce? Alfred?” he demands in a breathless voice that doesn’t sound like his own.

“I’m not...necessarily calling with bad news, Dick.”

The hesitation in the Commissioner’s voice suggests otherwise. Dick takes several stabilizing breaths as he merges onto the highway. “Alright then. That’s good, I suppose,” he says. His attempt at cheer is stiff, but hopefully his blatant relief makes up for it. “What’s this about?”

“I’m—” Jim cuts off, muttering indistinctly. “God, there’s no easy way to say this at all, is there?”

“Lay it on me, Commish,” Dick says. This time, he manages to feel some of the humor he’s pushing through his voice. “The suspense is killing me here.”

There’s a weird sound on the other end of the line. A mechanical beeping. Gordon must move because the sound disappears before Dick can identify it. “I’ve been trying to contact Wayne Manor,” Gordon explains. “The landline went to voicemail, and Lord knows if the cell number I have is valid anymore. Or if Mr. Wayne is even carrying the phone it’s associated with. Point is: neither Mr. Wayne nor Mr. Pennyworth seem to be available. Did they tell you where they’d be? When they’ll return?”

“Um, no,” Dick says. Bruce’s schedule is impossible to keep track of, not that he’s made much of an effort to do so lately, but he did speak to Alfred just last night. His surrogate grandfather didn’t mention leaving the Manor, but then again, he didn’t have to. Alfred doesn’t leave the Manor on Laundry Day. 

It’s... _weird_ Gordon can’t reach either of them, but Dick is quick to excuse them both for their absence. Bat business probably kept the pair of them “downstairs.” 

“I’m in Blüdhaven,” Dick continues. It’s both an excuse and an admission. “Haven’t been home in awhile.”

“You know what? Never mind that. It doesn’t matter. Can you get a hold of either of them?”

Dick senses a gravity in the question he doesn’t fully understand. He hesitates but eventually responds with a short nod Gordon can’t see. “I can.”

“Good,” Gordon murmurs, heaving a heavy exhale. “That’s—that’s good. I...Are you driving?”

 _...Is he on something?_ Dick wonders wildly, suspicion prickling under his skin. In all the time Dick’s known him, Gordon has _never_ been this scattered. Not when investigating the most gruesome cases Gotham has to offer, not when the Joker kidnapped him and tried to drive him mad, and not even when Babs was in the hospital. His steady presence and intense focus on her treatment and recovery actually helped to keep _Dick_ from losing his mind.

This...this _isn’t_ the Jim Gordon Dick knows. This Gordon is following a script Dick was never given, acting out a part that doesn’t remotely fit into the established play. 

“Heading back to Gotham as we speak,” Dick says slowly. Gordon doesn’t have the opportunity to respond before Dick forces a chuckle and prompts, “You know, I’m debating whether or not I needed to make such an aggressive U-turn back there. My tires aren’t happy with me. Neither are all the commuters still stuck on—”

“Pull over.”

“I—what?” 

“Pull over, kid.”

Dick’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “You said this wasn’t bad news,” he teases weakly, even as he triggers his turn signal and merges off the highway, heading straight for the gas station located a light away.

Gordon doesn’t take the bait. “It isn’t.”

There’s a “but” lingering at the end of that statement. Dick bites his tongue and sits in tense silence until he reaches his destination. Once he shifts the car in park, he settles back in his chair. His palms are damp; his fingers, jittery. “Parked,” he informs Gordon.

The Commissioner takes a deep breath, holds it for what feels like an eternity, and exhales. “I probably should not be telling you this, but it’s...well, this is hardly a normal situation. And you’re hardly normal people.”

“...Thanks?” Dick says, uncertain what else he can say. His eyes trail up to the clock again. “No offense, Commissioner, but—”

“Dick, I have a kid here at Gotham East who has been identified as Jason Todd.”

At that moment, Dick is glad Gordon told him to pull over. His entire body goes rigid as a board, vision tunneling, and his lungs stall in his chest. 

“I have reason to believe it’s...not a lookalike,” Gordon continues. “Or a case of mistaken identity. It’s him.”

Disbelief and denial open their maw deep within Dick’s gut, latching onto an insidious swell of pain and anger. He waits for the punchline, but when it’s clear Gordon isn’t about to give him one, Dick bites out, “That isn’t funny.”

“Son...”

“Jason is dead, Commissioner,” Dick interrupts, harsh and cold. More so than ever, Dick is convinced something is very wrong with the man. Something—some _one_ —is playing a very sick game here. What else would have possessed Gordon to do this? No. Better question: what exactly was the power that had a hold on him? And why? Why choose _Dick_ to play this morbid prank on? Why use _Jason?_

The only logical explanation Dick can come to is that this is a targeted attack. A _personal_ one. Bruce and Alfred were the initial targets, too, weren’t they? Gordon tried _them_ first.

Protective fury prickles under his skin. Dick isn’t going to stand for this. He refuses. It’s been half a year, and Dick still fights the urge to pull out his phone to text Jason stupid memes. He still dreams about Jason’s last moments, still senses the distance dividing his family, still _hurts_.

He and the second Robin didn’t always get along, but like hell is he going to allow some base villain-of-the-day to dishonor Jason’s memory like this.

That kid deserves so much more than whatever gross ploy this is. His _family_ deserves more than this.

Bitterly, Dick continues, “I know I’m no authority on the matter seeing as I was...unable to attend my own foster brother’s funeral, but—”

“I realize!” Gordon barks abruptly. “I _know_ how crazy it sounds, but it does nothing to change the fact I was called in to Gotham East Hospital this morning to interview the young woman who identified him. It doesn’t change the fact that one of my officers just verified there’s an empty grave at St. Peter’s. And it sure as hell doesn’t change the fact that I’m currently _looking_ at Jason Todd myself, Dick!”

Dick’s heart races, skipping like the wings of a dilapidated bumblebee. It isn’t true. It can’t be. Some distant part of him wonders if he’s going to be able to keep his breakfast down. “Empty grave?” he demands, sickened to the core. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Gordon says, his voice softening. “I know what you’ve been trained to think. So...” He pauses and says, very formally, “This is me, telling you: _Little Robin Redbreast came to visit me. This is what he whistled.”_

 _“...Thank you for the tea,”_ Dick finishes in a dazed whisper.

It’s their password. His and Gordon’s.

 _Robin’s_ and Gordon’s.

Holy shit. 

“ _You want me to_ what _?”_ Dick’s memory of Gordon asks.

_The Robin he once was pivots on his wrist, one leg falling away from the other as he lifts his other hand off the edge of the building. From his upside-down position, he can see Gordon’s face. He’s watching Robin with awed trepidation._

_Robin beams. Perhaps he’s not so upset with Batman for sending him on to the GCPD ahead of him now. Gordon is a good audience._

_“Come up with a password with me!” Robin reiterates, expertly switching between his hands without falter. “B’s been going on and on and_ on _about what might happen if he’s ever compromised and if this happens or if that happens, and—”_

_Gordon snorts. “He’s instilling in you the importance of contingencies. Of course he is.”_

_“Sure!” Robin says. Let the adults think what they want. He honestly thinks it’ll be cool to have a secret with Gordon. Fun, too, to see how long he can keep it from B. “We’ll go with that.”_

_He doesn’t fool Gordon. He can tell. The man’s hiding a smile, and Robin decides, at that moment, to tip his balance_ just so _over empty air_ . _Before Gordon can gasp, Robin grins and readjusts, twisting into a graceful dismount that leads into an easy cartwheel across the rooftop. He stops right before Gordon and bounces on his toes. “So? What’d’ya say?”_

_Gordon’s hand drops from where it hangs in midair. “I say you’re a brat,” he says without heat._

_“Thank you. They all say that. But I_ meant _the password.”_

 _Gordon’s moustache twitches again. For all the Commissioner’s professional distance, he does have a bit of a soft spot for kids, doesn’t he? Robin thinks he may be getting through to him. He may even go so far as to describe that twinkle in the man’s eyes as a_ fond _one_. 

_Score._

_Gordon lowers himself to Robin’s height and whispers conspiratorially, “Alright then. It has to be something that stays secret so we can use it to identify each other, at any time and for any reason.”_

_“Duh. That_ is _the purpose of a secret password, isn’t it?_ ”

 _“Okay, wise-guy,” Gordon snarks back. “It also has to be something that’s easy enough to remember, but nothing that an imposter can easily guess. What did you have in mind?”_

That was years ago now. Dick was _barely_ nine _,_ and looking back on it, Gordon was likely just indulging him. They never actually used the password. Never had reason to. Knowing what Dick knows now about Martians and psychics, a verbal password really is a shoddy defense, anyway. 

(But then again, perhaps not. There is a certain genius in simplicity, especially in a city overrun by those who pride themselves on their “mad” intellect).

Damn. He...he’d forgotten, in all honesty. He’s surprised Jim even—

Full comprehension slams into him. “Oh,” he states, dizzy. “ _Oh._ You... _how_?”

“Not important,” Gordon dismisses. “But hear me when I say this, Dick. I am not lying to you.”

Dick’s already shoved his gear shift into reverse. His hands quake. Reviewing everything Gordon’s said in the last few minutes feels like being stuck on a malfunctioning carousel. Every time he tries to jump off and catch a sense of true understanding, he gets sucked right back onto the platform by the centrifugal force of his previous assumptions.

 _It isn’t possible._ But there is an empty grave. _It can’t be._ Jim is telling the truth _. This is a trick. Jason is dead._

Jason _isn't_ dead. 

And around and around and around he goes.

“It’s really him?” he murmurs hoarsely.

“It’s really him.”

Dick backs out of his parking spot and slams the brake, grappling for the gear shift again. “You said Gotham East? What’s...what’s his status?”

“His injuries...” Gordon trails off. “They’re—they’re consistent with those in his autopsy report.”

The carousel comes to a nauseating halt, and a barbed lance of emotion drags itself through Dick’s chest, leaving everything torn ragged in its wake. He can’t make sense of any of the damage left behind. “Okay,” he chokes. He clears his throat. It doesn’t help. “Okay. What else can you tell me?”

“He asked for Bruce,” Gordon answers indirectly. “And...he’s out of surgery, as of fifteen minutes ago. I’m only here because we can’t call this a closed case just yet. Not without Bruce. Or Jason. I’m trying to contain the situation, but...it’s not easy. The doctors are baffled enough as it is. They think he may actually wake up. _Today._ ”

Dick shifts into drive and floors it.

“Thirty minutes out,” he manages to say before hanging up. 

Bruce’s cell goes immediately to voicemail. As does Alfie’s. A groan of frustration traps itself behind Dick’s pressed lips. Jason is somehow miraculously alive—incapacitated and _alone_ in the _hospital_ —and _no one is answering their goddamn phones._

 _God,_ Gordon was telling the truth. Jason is alive.

Tears blur his vision, and he can’t stop shaking. As the road flies by underneath him, his scrabbling thumb eventually finds the button on the side of his watch. It reads his thumbprint and releases a soft _chureep._ The screen of his phone distorts and pixelates before snapping back into clarity, several folders, apps, and contacts that weren’t there previously now available for perusal.

He doesn’t know where Bruce is. Can’t begin to guess what Alfred’s up to. But connecting to the Cave is his best bet to getting in touch with either if they’re not available through the usual channels.

He calls again.

The moment Bruce picks up, Dick demands throatily, “Where the hell are you?”

The deep rumble of a hum barely registers through his speakers. “Hello to you too.”

Hearing Bruce’s voice... he didn’t know how much he needed to hear it until now. It serves as a balm on Dick’s turbulent emotions, stamping the fight and panic right out of him. Because if Bruce is here, things might be okay. Things might start to make sense.

But then it registers to him _how_ Bruce sounds. He sounds exhausted. No. Beyond exhausted. He sounds downright desolate. Fractured _._ Something is broken, and Dick doesn’t know what it means or why it happened. It freaks him the hell out. “Are...Bruce, are you alright?” he asks.

A dark snort escapes Bruce. “No,” he admits. Dick doesn’t need to see him to know he’s massaging the bridge of his nose, eyes downcast. The mental image serves as a reminder that it’s been months since he and Bruce have really spoken, and guilt niggles at his conscience. 

_I shouldn’t have pushed him away. I shouldn’t have yelled. Shouldn’t have said those things. Now I don’t know what’s wrong, and I should. I—_

“But it doesn’t matter,” Bruce says firmly, breaking through Dick’s inner monologue. “It’s not important.” 

There’s a pause, and Dick hears the contemplative frown in Bruce’s voice when he asks, “Are _you_ alright? You sound strange.”

 _There’s somethin’ wrong with the world today,_ Aerosmith sings in his head.

“I don’t know,” Dick admits, the words gushing from him like water from a broken sprinkler. A deep part of him aches, and he can’t remember the last time he missed Bruce this profoundly. They’ve been a phone call away, living in sister cities not even forty miles apart, and it’s only now that Dick realizes just how much distance they’ve cast between themselves. “I have no damn clue. But you need to call Gordon. Now.”

“What?”

“I’m on my way to Gotham East,” Dick rambles. “You need to be there.”

“What?” Bruce repeats. This time it rings like an order. “What happened? Who is there?”

The stone lodged in Dick’s throat makes it impossible to speak, but he manages it. “ _Jason_.”

 _I don’t know,_ Dick wants to sob. _I don’t know, and I don’t understand, but please believe me. Please. Please tell me this isn’t a dream. Tell me you’re here._

But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Bruce has gone silent as death. Dick imagines, half-hysterically, that he can hear Bruce’s heartbeat, its tempo faltering in sync with his own.

He expects Bruce will demand answers, extract every detail Dick can give him. That’s what he does. He gathers intel, pulls from every source he can, and draws his own conclusions. He probably wants to ensure Dick isn’t compromised, much in the same way Dick had to ensure Gordon wasn’t. 

Bruce, however, surprises him by doing none of the above. 

Instead, he trusts Dick at his word.

“I’ll meet you there.”

There’s a decisive click, and Dick’s phone slips from senseless fingers. “Fuck,” he whispers, a vast sense of wonderment overtaking him. He laughs. “What the _fuck_ , Jason? What the actual fuck?”

The needle on the speedometer pushes past eighty miles per hour, and in the background, the radio continues to play.

It’s Boston this time. _Don’t Look Back._

* * *

Dick and Bruce arrive almost simultaneously.

Bruce is there first technically. He’s a mess, his clothes crumpled and eyes bruised. There's a healing scrape peeking out from underneath his collar, a shadow on his jaw, and a very unsubtle wrapping of bandages across his knuckles. He’s...lost weight over the last few months. Alfred is at Bruce’s side, and he’s the one who hears Dick’s door slam closed just as they are about to exit the parking garage. He waves and nudges Bruce, directing his attention toward Dick. 

They catch each other’s gazes across the lot, a mountain of unsaid things resting between them. It’s a small mountain, Dick realizes. It didn’t seem so small before.

He bulldozes straight through it and beelines toward his family.

“You spoke with Gordon?” he asks breathlessly as he approaches.

“Yes,” Bruce says shortly as he ducks out into the sunlight. It sounds as though there’s still a lot to talk about, but Bruce’s eyes are focused on the hospital, scanning the windows as though he can discern which belongs to their miracle. “We can go in through the employees’ entrance. Jim’s cleared it for us.”

“Thank Heavens for that man,” Alfred murmurs. “If he hadn’t been here—”

“Later,” Bruce says. “We’ll...we’ll worry about everything else later.”

By nonverbal consensus, they fall in step with each other, but not before Bruce slips an arm across Dick’s shoulders, just for a moment, and presses him close. 

_I’m sorry,_ the gesture tells Dick. _For everything. And I am so grateful. To you_. For _you._

Dick drinks it all in and presses back, taking a moment to catch Alfred’s hand, too, just briefly.

_I’m here._

The three of them don’t speak. A nameless hospital employee, accompanied by Harvey Bullock, lets them in through an unmarked door and leads them at a brisk hustle through uniform corridors of white. The detective and the employee must stare, must want to ask questions. Dick ignores them. The employee’s badge must get them through more than a few more locked doors, too, but Dick doesn’t pay attention to where they’re going, much less how they get there.

They come to a stop before a post-op room in a corridor just like all the rest. Dick stares at the closed door and wonders if it’s supposed to look like that. So normal. So unimposing. So much like the others. The only sign it’s the correct door at all is the fact Jim Gordon sits just outside, waiting for them.

Gordon rises to his feet to greet them, but he doesn’t speak. None of them do. There aren’t words to fit the void of anticipation culminating in the air. They all realize there’s no going back from this. For better or for worse, the masks are off. Illusions are shattered. Secrets are out. An indefinable thread ties them together, and it’s somewhat tangled, sometimes discolored, but for all its faults, it’s _there_. 

Dick’s eyes burn and itch, and he wrestles with impatience, with the desperate need to throw his body into motion. 

“He’s here?” Bruce finally asks for them all, once their escorts have scattered.

“Yes,” Gordon responds. 

“Do we need to wait for the surgeon?” 

“He’s already in the room.”

“...How is he?”

“I would have thought you’d want to see for yourself.” Jim suffers Bruce’s stare for a solid fifteen seconds before he caves. “Jesus, don’t do that. It’s unnerving. I have no clue, alright? There’s only so much they can tell me, considering. They’ve done well to keep this out of the wrong ears. His privacy’s been protected. As has yours.”

“Thank you,” Bruce breathes, finally breaking eye contact. “We can go in?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

A collective breath is drawn, held, and then...

Bruce approaches the door. Alfred hangs back, as does Dick, despite every nerve in him screaming to do otherwise. 

He’s terrified of what waits for them on the other side of that door. He doesn’t want to know what will happen if this is a false alarm. If, perhaps, this is a huge misunderstanding. 

They may not survive Jason’s death a second time.

When Bruce senses that he and Alfred fell away, he turns and raises a questioning brow.

“We’ll be right behind you, Master Bruce,” Alfred says kindly. “No doubt you want some time alone with him first.”

Bruce’s face twists, hand hesitating at the door. “I don’t want to do this alone,” he admits. In Bruce’s eyes, Dick’s fears reflect right back at him. An age-old argument echoes between them, and for the first time in a long time, Dick entertains _hope_. “Not this time. I can’t.”

Dick steps up immediately. Alfred is only a half-second behind him. The stiff line of Bruce’s shoulders slackens at the wordless promise in the gesture, and he...smiles. Actually smiles. 

Then he pushes open the door.

From within the room, there’s a sharp clatter. A clipboard falls as if in slow motion, and paper flutters across the floor. Jason’s doctor stumbles in shock, just barely catching himself on one of the monitors. He gapes incredulously at the bed, where a figure lies propped against the pillows, attached to a fewer wires and lines than Dick expected. A leg is suspended from above, encased in plaster.

“My word,” Alfred murmurs wetly. Bruce’s shoulders shake with unrepressed tears, and Dick...

Dick feels as though he’s taken his first full breath in months. 

His brother looks up. He sees them— _knows them_ —despite the stitches meandering along his hairline, and the panic in his eyes abates, as does the potent surge of adrenaline undoubtedly fueling his abrupt awakening. He sinks back into bed, whatever painkiller they have him on dragging him into its embrace.

“ _Took_ you long enough,” Jason Todd accuses them sleepily, words slurring. “And you di’n even bring me Burger King.”

Dick can’t help it.

He laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter is inspired by my little brother, who suffered a head injury when he was in high school, had to be airlifted to the hospital, and, while loopy on meds, asked my mother for frickin’ Burger King when he woke up from surgery. 
> 
> Check out [this stellar piece](https://noroomforcream.tumblr.com/post/632001966573322240/and-now-that-the-chapter-is-up-last-piece-for-the) by [noroomforcream](https://noroomforcream.tumblr.com)!
> 
> And [this equally stellar piece](https://blueghostdraws.tumblr.com/post/632001545355051008/last-piece-for-the-batfam-big-bang-this-goes) by [blueghostdraws](https://blueghostdraws.tumblr.com)!!!


	4. Jess (Redux)

Jess misses her next shift. And the one after that.

Her supervisor’s soft handling rankles even now, but after the GCPD released her and the others two nights ago, Jess didn’t have much of a leg to stand on regarding her general mental and emotional faculties. By the time she finally left the hospital and stumbled to her Uber, her eyes ached with fatigue, and the sun had long since set. 

She’d been awake for over twenty-four hours. 

If HR hadn’t insisted upon altering her schedule, she would have been back in the ER that very night for the second shift of her three-in-a-row stint that week, and even she had to concur she probably needed at least _some_ of the R&R they imposed upon her. 

Not that it mattered, really. She’s still exhausted. Still frustrated. Still buzzing with helpless energy.

When she left the hospital that night, she didn’t know what was happening—or what was _going_ to happen—to Jason Todd. 

It haunted her.

Every time she fell into so much as a doze, she would jolt awake, a fresh rush of anxiety zipping under her skin and igniting a sprint in her chest. She’d remember the kid he was, and she’d remember he has a family, friends, a _life_ the entire world thought he no longer needed.

And she’d realize, over and over again, that if she hadn’t been there…

No amount of self-soothing helped. She’d press her face into her tear-soaked pillow and try to banish the ghostly image of Jason’s bruised face and ruined fingers from her mind. Eventually, she’d throw off her covers and spend hours pacing her lonely apartment, browsing the local news sites. She never saw anything relevant, but it didn’t stop her from wondering what more she could do to ensure Jason was _okay_. Because she couldn’t let someone like Jason Todd fall into obscurity. She couldn’t let him become a victim to a world so keen to forget him just because logic demanded it.

She _wouldn’t_.

In a world where men can fly, where metahumans stand amongst them, where calamities and psychos come in all shapes and sizes, is a little bit of resurrection really so far-fetched? Is _hope_?

No, not to her.

_It had to matter._

For all she knew, she might have been alone in believing that. Once her interviews concluded that night, the GCPD was tight-lipped and unhelpful. The Commissioner, though far kinder and more patient than the other officers she spoke to, was even more so. Regardless, no amount of pestering, pleading, or cajoling revealed any details regarding Jason’s status, and perhaps Jess should have been a little more grateful that they were making a point to protect Jason’s privacy; that they were portraying some level of competence by not contaminating their “witnesses,” but...

She needed to know. She needed to be _sure_. And she couldn’t help but be bitter when they couldn’t give her so much as a nibble of information, something proving, _yes, we’re taking good care of him._

She ensured the GCPD was fully aware of her stance on the matter. The Commissioner met her pointed looks with equal intensity every time.

(Later, Jonah jokingly whistled under his breath and asked how she could pack so much spite into such a tiny frame. Jonah, for the record, is a monstrously gangly blond-haired, blue-eyed white man. Jonah received her finest death glare in response).

In the end, Jess’s only comfort lay in the stray blue ink she’d accidentally drawn across the side of her middle finger. The mark had long since washed away under a number of searing showers, of course, but she still feels the pen’s path across her skin like a burn. 

She signed all the nondisclosure forms they pushed at her that day. The subtleties she agreed to were lost on her, though the GCPD, hospital management, _and_ all the strangers in suits took great care to explain the contents to her. She didn’t care. She only cared that, if anything, the sheaves upon sheaves of forms she signed were proof enough of Jason’s positive ID, and if they kept Jason safe, if they helped bring his family to him...

Well, it was the very least she could do. 

It was apparently the _only_ thing she could do. She had to trust the GCPD would handle the rest.

Ha. She trusted them just about as far as she could send spit flying toward them. Which is to say, not very far. 

(She’s a _lady,_ after all). 

“Miss?” a tentative voice calls from the front seat. Startled, Jess sits upright and refocuses her attention on her Uber driver. She meets his concerned gaze through the rearview mirror. She must have had one ferocious frown on her to have made him so uncomfortable during the short drive from her apartment. “This right?”

Their car idles in the visitor drop-off zone, but she can’t be bothered to direct him to the employee entrance on the other side of the hospital. She thanks him and ducks out, slinging her tote over her shoulder and checking her phone. 

She’s over an hour early. 

At this point, she’s not deluded enough to believe she’s owed any updates about Jason—or that he’s still a patient here when Gotham General’s prestige far exceeds that of Gotham East’s. She’s not dumb enough to use the extra time to go hunting for answers, either, no matter how much she may want to. What she really wants—or, rather, what she _needs_ —is a distraction. Work has always been a satisfying one.

It’s a rather sleepy evening. The nearby construction crews have run out of daylight, and the silence they leave behind almost feels oppressive in its magnitude. A disheveled, tired young couple avoids her and treks out to the parking garage hand-in-hand. Only a single car passes her as she hops up onto the sidewalk. They pull up in the place her Uber vacated, and she absentmindedly watches as a single man steps out, wearing dark sunglasses, old jeans, and a Gotham Knights baseball cap. He has several greasy bags of Burger King clutched in his hands and overnight duffles draped over his shoulders. Somehow, he manages to balance them all and slide the driver a tip before they can drive away. 

Oddly charmed, Jess sees the man exchange a few words with the driver. Once the sedan is gone, he casually readjusts his duffle bags and reaches into the Burger King bag to hunt for some fries as he walks, stuffing them into his mouth in groups of five or more. He walks at an unhurried pace, an indolent slouch in his shoulders and hunch in his posture.

All in all, he’s utterly unremarkable. No one worth taking a second glance at, honestly. Jess shouldn’t be staring. Shouldn’t have a single interest in this random Gothamite. Except...

He’s almost too unremarkable.

He senses her watching. He must. His gaze flickers to her, and— 

Hang on.

 _I must be dreaming_ , Jess marvels, staring at Bruce _frickin’_ Wayne with his hand caught deep in a bag of _Burger King_. 

No. She shakes her head and forces herself forward, toward the doors. She _is_ hallucinating. The Bruce Wayne of _Time_ magazine’s ‘Person of the Year’ fame wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something so mundane, much less eating something so plebeian. There’s absolutely no way—

“Excuse me?” a lovely baritone calls out behind her.

Jess turns to find the man’s stopped to lower his bags onto a bench outside the sliding glass doors. He transforms before her eyes, his slouch disappearing as he removes his sunglasses, revealing eyes of blue ice. It’s amazing how much that slouch disguises his true height. He’s easily a foot and a half taller than her, a bear of a man, really, and God help her, it _is_ him. Bruce Wayne.

“Jess Turner?” he asks.

 _What the fuck?_ Jess wants to say. “Um, yes?” she ends up responding dumbly.

His tentative expression blossoms into a crooked smile that looks bizarre on his face. That, Jess realizes, is probably because it’s _real._ This smile is degrees different from the one she sees in his press photos and magazine spreads. “I don’t normally believe in coincidences,” he says in a quiet, distant voice, “But given everything...” He shakes his head and, leaving his things where they are, takes the few extra steps forward to offer his hand. “Bruce Wayne.”

Jess accepts his hand robotically. “I know.” Wincing at the awkward delivery, she tries again, “Hello, Mr. Wayne.” 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologizes. “I just...recognized you and couldn’t let you go without saying something. Saying thank you. For what you did.”

Immediately, a desperate lump grows in her throat, and the significance of Bruce Wayne’s presence overwhelms her in a violent tsunami wave of emotion. “You’re...you’re _here_ ,” she realizes aloud, embarrassingly desperate and needy even to her own ears. “That means...” 

He doesn’t need to say anything. She reads it all over his face. She’ll never be able to describe it in words, how eyes as frigid as Wayne’s can thaw into something so warm and comforting, something as kind and gentle and vulnerable as _this_. 

_You did it,_ he’s telling her. _And we confirmed it. My son is alive._

Her eyes burn. “He’s okay?” she whispers.

“Why don’t you see for yourself?” 

Before Jess can ask what he means, Mr. Wayne has pulled his phone out of his pocket. He taps a few times and turns the screen toward her, displaying a picture of three men posed around Jason’s bedside. Mr. Wayne is easily recognizable at the far left even with his rumpled clothing and exhaustion-lined eyes. An elderly gentleman is at his side, looking equally exhausted and oddly stern. That, she thinks, may be due to the young man sprawled at Jason’s feet. The photographer has caught him mid-laugh. He smiles like uninhibited sunshine, one hand resting on Jason’s good ankle and the other gesticulating carelessly in the air. 

Richard Grayson. The gossip rags call him sexy. They call him easy and charming and all sorts of gooey things that belong in cheap paperback romances. Jess fixates on the deep dimple on his right cheek and wonders why no one ever talks about his contagious joy.

Jason, for his part, isn’t looking at the camera either. His arms are crossed against his chest, several IV lines trailing around him. He’s rolling his eyes at Richard, but the upward quirk of his lips gives him away. She sees some of the eight-year-old she once knew in his teenaged face, too, and it makes her smile. 

_He’s awake. He’s okay._

“I’m...” _So relieved. So happy. So…_ Jess tries to clear her throat, but the emotion lodged there refuses to give. She shakes her head and lets the words die, sniffling and wiping a tear away with a self-conscious thumb. 

Mr. Wayne must think she’s an utter mess. Or worse: beyond touched in the head. God, he’s probably thinking a lot of things. She’s a stranger, after all, with a connection to his once-dead son so tenuous it can hardly be called that. Jason’s crossed paths with numerous other people in his life. She isn’t special. She needs to get a grip.

“I don’t know what would have happened,” Mr. Wayne murmurs gruffly, unable to look her in the eye, and Jess stares at him, heart skipping as though she’d just been caught in a lie, “if you hadn’t been there that night.”

Validation is _sweet,_ but Jess can’t enjoy the feeling. Something about Mr. Wayne’s tone unnerves her. She denies the sentiment. “I’m sure someone would have—”

Mr. Wayne’s gaze snaps back to her, and she’s spellbound by the fractured stories, heartbroken regrets, and renewed hope she sees in the shadows of his expression. “No,” he insists.

He breaks eye contact then, and another disconcerting chill rolls down her limbs, goosebumps prickling along its path.

She has the distinct impression she’ll never understand the full breadth of everything Mr. Wayne meant to say with that single word. _No._ It’s full potential falls between them and gapes into a yawning cavern she could never hope to explore without more context.

She is not tempted to step up to that terrifying edge. Not in the least. 

Jess dismisses the odd sensation. Mr. Wayne’s intensity has disappeared now that he’s skipped ahead to the next image, and she feels comfortable enough to step back into his space to see. 

On the screen now is a selfie of Richard with a groggy, post-op Jason. They’re both shooting the camera a thumbs up. The next? The older gentleman with a book, sat calmly at Jason’s bedside as he sleeps. Then one of Commissioner Gordon, for some reason, talking intensely with Jason, a bouquet of sunflowers lying across his lap. Then finally one of Mr. Wayne, passed out and drooling. Given the angle, this one was taken _from_ Jason’s bed. 

With every picture, Jess’ heart billows like a sail catching a great gust of wind. There’s no hiding the tears beading at the corners of her eyes now. She lets them fall.

“I...thank you, Mr. Wayne,” she says. “This...this is a gift. Truly. You can’t know how much this means to me.”

Mr. Wayne studies her without judgement. “You knew Jason,” he says a little haltingly. His cautiousness is endearing, actually. She usually feels humiliated whenever she gets emotional around people, friends and strangers alike. He’s different, somehow. “Didn’t you?”

“Once. Long ago. We were just kids. He probably doesn’t remember.”

“But you do.”

Jess barks a wet laugh. “How could I not? He was a little punk. But he...” 

Mr. Wayne smiles when she trails off, and she has the sense that he can fill in the blanks; that, despite how meager her explanation is, he understands how much she wishes she had the words to make it _less_ so. He radiates paternal pride and fierce love, and Jess is stunned all over again by how unreal this is.

None of them know, do they? Articles upon articles document Bruce Wayne’s wealth, his business prowess, his playboy past. They’ve mocked him, blamed him, praised him. They’ve called him generous and selfish in equal measure. 

None of them realize just how much he _cares_. 

It’s for this reason, she thinks, that she finds herself admitting, “I still don’t know why he did it. I don’t think I ever will. He didn’t know me. I barely knew him.”

“That’s Jason for you,” Mr. Wayne chuckles. “He’s like a lightning storm, rushing in unannounced and leaving a lasting impression.” 

Jess remembers the way Jason growled “ _promise me;”_ the way he said “ _we Alley kids,”_ as though they belonged to one another without even knowing each other’s names, as though it isn’t every kid for themselves out there on the streets _._ She gets why someone like Wayne would love a kid like Jason. “That’s one way to put it.”

“For what it’s worth, I will be forever grateful for it,” Mr. Wayne says. “For whatever impression he left. Because it’s what brought him back to me. Hell, it’s what brought my entire family back to me. I won’t forget that. We owe you a debt.”

The sincerity in his voice takes her aback, and she shakes her head. “No, you don’t. You’ve already done enough for me.”

Mr. Wayne cocks his head, and to her surprise, recognition alights his expression. “Oh. You were one of my scholarship winners. Three—? No. Two years ago?”

“You _remember_ that?” she gapes. 

He doesn’t pay her incredulity any mind. “Coincidence indeed,” he murmurs to himself in a discomfited tone. He visibly shakes it off and tells her, “That doesn’t count. You won that scholarship on merit alone. What can I offer you now as a thank you?”

“Nothing.” When he frowns and opens his mouth to push the issue, Jess says, “This is enough, Mr. Wayne.” She gestures between them and the phone. “This is more than enough.” 

“Surely there is—"

“You and Jason each gave me a chance,” she argues. “I can’t ask for more.”

“Would you like to see him?” he asks abruptly.

Jess starts, thrown by his offer. “I—I’m sorry? What?”

“Would you like to see him?” Mr. Wayne repeats in that kind, deliberate way of his. “He wouldn’t mind another visitor. In fact, he’d be thrilled. He’s only been complaining nonstop about the cafeteria food and his interminable boredom since they lowered his pain killers and took him off NPO. He's too dizzy to read still, and television is even worse. You’d do him some good, I think.”

Jess stares at the man before her and then back down at the last image on his phone. It’s another of Jason. Scowling. 

Jess chokes on a snort. _Of course._ _Of course_ he’s scowling.

There’s some temptation, aching like a bruise in her ribcage. Part of her wants nothing more than to thank him in person, to tell him that she’s where she is today because of him.

But as she looks down at his scowl, frozen in time, she also feels utterly at peace and knows she can’t. Won’t. 

Jess is a part of Jason’s old life, an extraneous detail in an early chapter long since read and forgotten. Somehow, someway, he has another chance to write new chapters, and she’ll never know about them because she isn’t _meant_ to. And that’s okay. It’s more than okay.

He’s alive, healing, and back where he belongs. She’s out, thriving, and doing what she loves _._ The odd intersection of their lives has cycled back on itself. The loop is closed. The next page is pristine and blank and eager for his next story. Just as there is one for her own.

He’s kept his promise, and she’s kept hers.

That’s all that matters.

Jess shakes her head, too overwrought to speak. She hopes Mr. Wayne can see why she’s refusing. 

If there’s one thing she learned about Bruce Wayne in the five minutes she spent talking with him, though, it’s that she should know better than to underestimate him. 

“I understand,” he says softly. “Even so...” He turns back to his bags and digs out a wallet, from which he pulls a business card. “This is my personal work number,” he explains, extending the card. “If you need anything, at any time, don’t hesitate to call.”

Jess takes it, just to be polite. She knows she’ll never use it. 

(Years later, she may find the card hidden amongst her belongings and wonder why she ever held onto it. She’ll laugh with her wife about being a pack rat and tuck it right back into the old book she found it in all the same).

“I’m just glad he’s alright, Mr. Wayne, truly,” Jess assures, “but...thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“It’s Bruce, Jess,” Mr. Wayne corrects distractedly as he collects his overnight duffles and the food. He sighs as he considers the Burger King bags. “He and Dick are going to give me the riot act for bringing them cold food,” he laments. “Shame Jason didn’t have a taste for anything a little more...” His nose wrinkles. “...palatable.”

Jess bursts into laughter, unable to help herself. “Don’t lie,” she teases without thinking. “I saw you sneaking those fries.”

To her utter delight, he winks and puts a single finger to his lips, shushing her. “Our secret.”

“You really are a big softie, aren’t you?” she wonders aloud. “You’d do anything for them, wouldn’t you?”

The playful light in Bruce’s expression flares into a protective fire. Jess sees before her the man who would pull a street rat out of the Alley and provide him a home, who sought talent and bright souls for the sole purpose of giving them a chance to thrive and reach their full potential.

“Anything,” Bruce agrees simply, turning away and raising a hand in farewell.

Inspired by a sudden impulse, Jess calls out, “Actually, Mr. Wayne…”

He pushes his sunglasses back into place. “Bruce.”

“ _Bruce,_ then. If you don’t mind, I do have a favor I’d like to ask of you. Can you give Jason a message for me?”

“Of course,” Mr. Wayne says easily. In fact, he looks largely relieved, as though her simple request has lifted a weight off his shoulders.

A debt for a debt. Kindness paid forward and repaid in kind. Jess can empathize with that mentality.

She grins. “Tell him I said ‘ _We Alley kids are better than they think we are_.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap! Hope you guys enjoyed the fic!


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